


My Own Home

by Multifaceted_Melancholic



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: A Jötunn by any other name is still a Jötunn, A rose by any other name is still a rose, F/M, Good Jötnar, Good Laufey, Jötunn Loki, Sneaky Helblindi, Thor tries to be a good bro, but he's not very successful, really he tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifaceted_Melancholic/pseuds/Multifaceted_Melancholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor always knew that his brother was strange... but even so, it was too much. Loki didn't understand either, but he was just acting on his instincts. Pre-Thor AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own Home

**Author's Note:**

> Posting my first Loki Fanfiction on my new AO3 account! I still haven't got a hang of this site (evidenced by the tags). Initially posted on FFnet.
> 
> UPDATE 7 March 2015 - Two extra scenes added.

* * *

 

**...**

_“We be of one blood, ye and I”_

_― Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Books_

...

* * *

 

Thor always knew his brother was strange.

His earliest remembrance of his brother’s enigma is the incident they shall never forget, yet never speak of again.

They were but children, sneaking where they should not be (as usual). The urge to explore had always gripped Thor more tightly; though his mother claimed that Loki merely had more patience. And where better to explore than the armoury? (The Weapons vault, of course; but that was guarded by the Destroyer, and Thor had no intention of dying before he fought glorious battles and became king.)

Thor and his little brother snuck into the armoury adjoining the smithy; bypassing the regular training swords entirely and slipping into the weaponmaster’s special barracks. Here were the weapons of _true_ worth kept, all except Mjὂlnir the war-hammer.

Loki held back, curiously examining a pair of twin blades, while Thor pushed onwards to find the biggest, meanest, and toughest weapon – one that might be worthy of the future king.

A recess at the far end of the chamber caught his eye. In it was a large, curved scimitar, encased in glass with its own alcove. The blade was sharp enough to nick a vein and large enough to lob off a giant’s head (or so Thor thought; he had never seen a giant, but he knew they were _huge_ ).

The eldest prince had unfastened the deadbolt and opened the glass when the edgy voice of his younger brother stopped him.

“Thor, what are you doing?”

Thor rolled his eyes, bracing shoulders in preparation for removing the blade from its resting place. “What does it look like I am doing, brother? I am inspecting this weapon.”

Loki, always the voice of reason, protested. “Don’t be risky, Thor. Lock it back and let’s move on. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes in search of us; do you _want_ to be caught in the act?”

Thor huffed. “Just a few quick swings, Loki; to test its weight and balance. How can the worth of a war-weapon be judged from afar?”

Loki frowned, reluctantly inching closer while giving Thor his best glare. “No touching. That was the rule we agreed on, at the very start of this so-called adventure.” Pre-empting a belligerent response, he continued testily, “Don’t tell me you have forgotten, Thor, because I know you haven’t. **_No touching_**. That was the _only_ reason I let you drag me in this foolish endeavour.”

“Hush, Loki; you worry too much. This is _my_ quest, and therefore _I_ decide what we do.”

_“And **you** decided there would be no touching!”_

Thor retorted with a wry grin, _‘only because you insisted’_ conveyed clearly through his brilliant blue eyes.

The younger brother sighed, knowing a lost argument when he saw one. Calming himself marginally, Loki appealed to his brother’s (rather lacking) sense of self-preservation. “Come Thor, these weapons are dangerous. You know that’s why they are forbidden, even to the regular soldiers. Princes though we may be, we are still novice trainees.”

As the very first victim of Loki’s budding silver-speak talents, Thor had learnt his lesson early: the best way to deal with Loki was not to respond to him.

Accordingly, the elder prince ignored his brother, extracting the scimitar (more of a scythe up close) from its holster, admiring the glint of the polished steel in the faint lamplight.

Behind him, Loki shuddered visibly and clutched the wall for support.

Thor raised an eyebrow at his green-eyed sibling’s dramatics, then proceeded to examine his shiny new weapon. Hefting it in his right hand, Thor carefully ran a finger over the sharp edge of the blade, measuring its sharpness.

Sucking in a ragged breath, panting heavily, Loki wheezed out, “Thor, there is something wrong with that sword. I don’t know what it is, but it is no ordinary weapon. ‘tis dangerous, and we should not even be looking at it, much less wielding it.”

Had Thor not made up his mind to ignore his brother, he would have noticed the genuine fear in the younger boy’s face. As such, he saw only the whining of a scared child.

“What, Loki, are you afraid of a rusty old sickle?” Thor snorted. “You should spare a glance at _real_ weapons sometimes, my brother, lest you forget how to wield anything but your magic.”

Hysterically, Loki cried out, “Thor, _please_ , don’t touch it, it is dangerous beyond our knowledge. The weapon has magic, I know it; I can sense its malevolence. It is _evil_ ; you _MUST_ let go! Please, _Thor!_ ”

The sudden almost-shriek drew Thor away from his contemplative assessment. He jerked involuntarily, cutting his finger on the burnished steel. Eyes widening at the sight of blood, Thor had only a moment of relief at the shallowness of the cut before a black smoke oozed from the point of contact.

Suddenly the blade became heavier than before, forcing Thor to use both hands to keep it aloft. Even so, the prince could barely keep the pointed edge from clanging to the floor and alerting all of Gladsheim to their misbehaviour.

“Loki!“ Thor reprimanded, angry blue eyes scolding his brother for the costly distraction. His next words were swallowed by a gasp, as every muscle in his body screamed in protest and he collapsed to his knees in exhaustion. He turned to the scimitar in his hand, which glowed with a sickly light, spewing thick black fumes of undoubtedly unpleasant purpose.

He made to drop it, but of no avail. The weapon seemed determined to leech away his will, to feed its unnatural flame. Through the tears in his eyes, Thor found the panicked gaze of his brother and held it.

An agonizing sting of pain at his open cut, a great heaviness in his limbs, a far-off rumbling as if the floor itself was tearing asunder; and Thor succumbed to unconsciousness.

 

When the prince came to, he was in the healer’s wards, his worried mother and furious father peering into his face.

Sensing his wakefulness, Frigga rushed to embrace her son while Odin launched into an angry tirade. _“What were you thinking!”_

Not giving Thor a chance to explain himself, Odin bellowed in rarely-seen anger. “The sword was in its own case embedded with subjugation runes; surely that must have warned you that it was the deadliest of the weapons there! Yet you had the gall to remove it from its protection spells, and with your _bare hands_!”

Frigga squeezed Thor’s shoulder, his quiet chastisement as potent as Odin’s thunderous fury. “Those are special weapons, Thor. There is a reason why they are kept locked and used by only the qualified persons, and that too only in very serious situations.”

In an awful solemn voice, Odin stated coldly, “The weapon you tried to wield is called fệẛuvἲṙ, and it is one of the twelve cursed blades of Ḋraṕṫṏri. They were widely famed in the ḋraḡnir wars, as they are weapons which suck away the energy of the wielder, and are activated by an offering of the wielder’s blood.”

The young prince’s eyes widened, remembering the scratch he had suffered at Loki’s sudden exclamation. Dreading what he would see, Thor lowered his gaze to his arm.

Frigga’s hand on his shoulder was gently reassuring, and Thor needed it what he saw how much damage had been inflicted. Where once was a tiny cut, now the entire finger was covered in ugly black welts, yellow pus peeking out of the swollen fingertip.

Pausing to let his words sink in, Odin pointed out harshly, “You are lucky you held it only for such a short period of time. Those who carry the blade continuously have _died_ , if not of exhaustion, then of blood depletion.”

Thor’s lips trembled; he had never meant for such a thing to happen!

Sensing Thor’s real terror and remorse, Odin sighed, a small part of his ire dissipating in face of his almost-lost heir’s belated realisations. “Oh child, what reason have you to seek danger, when you could ask to view the weapons with the safety of a chaperone? What did you seek to achieve from this foolhardiness?”

Determination pushing through the guilt in his countenance, Thor murmured softly, “Forgive me father; I was reckless and overconfident. I asked for no aid; as ‘twas to be my quest and mine alone. I sought a weapon; a weapon of worth, to perform glorious deeds and prove myself, as the prince of Asgard ....and as your son.”

Odin shook his head sadly, his face softening in understanding. “Silly boy, I shall always be proud of you, no matter how disobedient you are.”

Raising his chin as a sign of acknowledgement, Odin pronounced judgement in his deep All-Father voice. “While your actions were ill-advised, you have shown bravery, ambition and determination this day. Thor Odinson, I hereby deem you worthy, and when you are old enough, you shall wield the mightiest of weapons that Asgard has to offer its courageous prince, the war-hammer Mjolnir.”

Thor gaped at his father, stunned. Even Frigga seemed taken aback. Odin’s one eye crinkled in a smile as his ruffled his son’s golden hair. Safe and sound and _together,_ they made a beautiful family. No one heeded the _other_ prince, watching pale-faced from the corner as his brother’s recklessness was once again handsomely rewarded.

...

* * *

 

...

Thor knows that his brother, his pale, knowledge-hungry, adventure-averse little brother, is somehow _different_ , from him, from his entire family; despite the bond of blood that ties them. Thor has learned to take most things into stride, to accept his brother’s oddities with bemusement _(and the occasional ridicule, nothing too serious)_. Thor exercises commendable tolerance where his brother is concerned, but sometimes Loki’s idiosyncrasies go too far.

Like now.

The feast in honour of Lady Freya runs in full enthusiasm (particularly the mead), and laughter and cheer is aplenty. The House of Odin is entertaining the noblewoman during her brief visit to Asgard’s golden halls on the way to who-knows-where (Alfheim, he thinks; but he does not particularly care); and Thor cannot imagine a pleasanter task.

The Lady is as fair as the rumours say, and the rumours say much indeed. Her coy laugh tinkles melodically at Thor’s latest tale of adventure, gentle and pleasant and delicate, much like the lady herself. The gems on her dazzling gown shimmer and shine, making Asgard’s halls look brighter than ever before. 

Thor’s mood is similarly brightened, when she lauds his victories with her sparkling eyes and subtle caresses.

Freya’s encouragement prompts Thor to recount more and more tales of his successes, sometimes with a little flair, bordering on garrulous. “And in one fell swoop, I chopped off the foul creature’s head! The pitiful Midgardian lord was so grateful, he erected a statue of pure gold in my honour, which townsfolk worship even to this day!”

Lady Freya gasped. “Oh my, did you really? Your exploits know no match, my prince.”

Never let it be said that Thor was without modesty, though previous behaviour have led some to suspect. “That was nothing, my dear Lady. You have yet to hear of the time I battled hrydṙhims in Muspelheim. Now that was an act worthy of legend.”

Freya twirled a strand of lustrous hair between her fingers becomingly. “It would seem that there are none as mighty as you in all the nine realms, my prince. I imagine I am a poor audience, but I am too speechless in awe-“

The lady is clearly enchanted, and she would no doubt further attest to her deep and heartfelt appreciation of Thor’s bravery, if she were not interrupted.

Loki, while neither addressed nor invited into the conversation, nevertheless performs his duty as a host with single-minded diligence, by stepping in to voice his opinions on the matter at hand. Unfortunately, his opinions are seldom pleasant; especially those in connection with Lady Freya.

“Speechless? Really? Forgive me, my lady, but I find that a little hard to believe.” Seeing raised eyebrows, Loki sought to elaborate in as offensive a manner he could manage without breaking rules of etiquette. “After all, you are so quick to empty flattery; silence much be quite the effort for you.”

Thor laughs awkwardly, while Freya’s expression is not quite as gentle and pleasant as it had been just moments before. One does not need the god of thunder to know that a storm is fast approaching.

Rolling his eyes, Thor attempts to quell Loki’s errant tirade. “Hush, Loki.”

His brother has the gall to look affronted. But before Thor should divert the conversation, a look of fake innocence smoothens Loki features. Glibly, he declares, “I am holding my tongue better than the ‘speechless’ lady.”

Sensing an _immediate_ need to remedy the situation, Thor smoothens over the thinly-veiled insult as well as he is able. “My brother, the trickster!” he booms, laughing loudly and forcefully to show he paid Loki’s words no mind. Cajoling the lady out of her silence, he offers sheepishly, “They say his silver tongue cuts deeper than any dagger. Do not take offense, milady; few heed his sly words.”

It seems to appease the beautiful woman. Freya softens, and turns her petite form towards Thor in a clear dismissal of the other prince. “Do tell me of your great conquests in Muspelheim, my Prince. I cannot imagine the determination it must take to traverse willingly through such a place... is it not a desolate realm filled with naught but monsters and flesh-eaters?” Shaking her head in admiration, Freya exclaims softly, “You must have no fear at all”.

Thor cheers up immensely, glad to be back in the familiar territory of praise. “Aye, Muspelheim is a foul place, with eldṏnna prowling across the borderlands and rangers thieving on travelling bands.”

Freya titters. “Surely they must have run away in fear when they heard that Thor the Thunderer has arrived to set their wretched world to rights.”

It is the opportune moment for Loki to step in; and that is exactly what he does, never without a witty quip. “Oh yes, they were positively quaking. With laughter, that is.”

For some unfathomable reason, the second prince is determined to cut off the dulcet tones with his sharp jabs. Behind Freya’s back, Thor throws a reproachful glare at his brother.

Not that it helps; if anything, Loki seems only more enthused. “They could not believe an invading party could be so arrogant as to take on an entire patrol of ash-mountain cleavers without any military reinforcements. They chased us off their lands with their jeers and arrows at our backs. An entirely foolish and fruitless venture, and as sorry a tale as ever heard. You shall find no adventures or deeds of honour in that saga, Lady Freya, no matter how much my dear brother shall attempt to convince you otherwise.”

“I am sure your rendition of events is mightily skewed, oh sorcerer; for no warrior of a dead land could possibly strike fear in the heart of Asgard’s golden prince, whose achievements are sung by bards from all realms.” Freya coos, her eyes seeking Thor’s approval, which he heartily provides.

“Well... not Jὂtunheim, perhaps.” Fandral chuckles, but he is mostly ignored, much to his despair. He would have liked more opportunity to charm himself into the delectable but so-far elusive Freya’s favour.

Loki raises an incredulous eyebrow, and laces his voice with honey for his venomous retort. “The bards and minstrels also say that the Lady Freya is a beauty like no other. Clearly, their word is not to be taken at face value.”

For one moment, there is absolute silence.

Thor’s brain finally catches up with the dangerous situation, and he protests passionately, as if an insult to Freya’s glory is an insult to his personal honour. “Brother, surely you jest, or your eyes are failing you at your young age.” Rushing on at his admirer’s foreboding and clearly unimpressed frown, “Lady Freya is widely acclaimed to be the fairest maiden in all of the nine realms-“

Loki scoffs. “She is pale, sickly; lacklustre even. Her allure lies entirely in her deceptive charm, the various concoctions she plasters on her face, and the assets she flaunts in her entirely inappropriate attire.”

Thor pales, for he is far too tired (and inebriated) to form a coherent response to Loki’s silver-tongue, the blade of which is fully drawn in challenge. “Now, now Loki-“ he blusters mock-jovially, in an effort to divert the storm he knows is coming.

His efforts seem more to stroke Loki’s ire than assuage his- what? Distrust? Jealousy? Unreasonable dislike?

Loki continues his onslaught, dispensing entirely with feigned politeness, his words sharp and icy. “And what maiden? Her flighty and coquettish manners are so well-known, she can hardly be considered a _lady_. And do not get me started on her irritating voice.”

Thor groans amid the disapproving mutters of the courtiers and Freya’s hateful glare (all directed at Loki, of course). Despite his charming tongue, or indeed _because_ of it, Loki is very good at making enemies.

Needless to say, that night Freya denies all further affections from Thor, going so far as to slam the door in the prince’s face (in a most unladylike manner) when he tries to charm his way into her chambers. Spending a lonesome night in his room, Thor muses on the quandary of his brother’s actions. Regretfully, this is not Loki’s first offense.

It has always been the same; for as long as Thor can remember. Loki is always composed, even when Thor cannot help boasting his skills to impress the ladies of court. Loki is unruffled, amused even, by all the flaunting and flattery that courtship elicited from his infatuated companions.

Yet Loki, for all his dignified and smooth-tongued charm, is not popular with women the way Thor and Fandral are. His brother is a scholar and a research of infinite patience, often foregoing meals and ablution, when engrossed in huge leathery tomes that serve only lull Thor to sleep. Yet, he seems to spare none of that fortitude for feminine company.

Flirting noblewomen are barely tolerated, often chased away with barbed words and petty insults. The second prince has spurned many a woman’s subtle advances, opting for quiet and solitude. Thor has often attempted to dissuade Loki from his reclusive attitude, but every time Loki would patiently explain, ‘Intelligent conversation is my only prerequisite; yet it is proves to be a rarity even among the finest of maidens’.

Loki’s standards are a far cry from Thor’s own, in almost all areas of life. Hunting and battle are ‘ _tedious’_ to his brother, as is, apparently, the emotional upheaval of courtship. Doe eyes and curvaceous hips do not tempt Loki, not like the aura of power and seiðr. Loki is all elegance and finesse and tricks, and holds disdain for honour and bravery and other ideals Thor lives his life by.

Thor tries not to judge, _really_ … but others are not so kind.

Few understand Loki’s inclinations and motives, and people are always quick to criticize the second prince. Unkind whispers follow Loki in the wake of his latest debacle with the Lady Freya (a debacle only in _their_ opinion, and Thor’s; Loki does not believe he did anything wrong). ‘ _Argr’_ , they call him, and ‘ _ergi’_ , for surely one who does not find the pinnacle of feminine beauty worth notice could only be searching for _another type_ of companion entirely.

The only woman Loki has ever voluntarily declared ‘beautiful’ is Frigga. While the sentiment was appreciated, it really did not help his case.

...

* * *

 

...

Odin All-Father, the wisest man in all the nine realms, had once told his sons: Peace is a precious commodity desired by every ruler in the history of the World Tree, yet few would be willing to agree to a peaceful solution as an alternative to conflict.

Yet peace across the nine realms is exactly what Odin All-Father is attempting to accomplish; which is probably why he struggles so much.

After centuries of half-hearted negotiation, of navigating through fickle alliances and poorly concealed hostility, Asgard has finally mustered enough support to convene an inter-realm peace summit. It is, in itself, an achievement worth cheering (and feasting), but it is merely the start of the peace process.

Being the proposer of the whole congregation, All-father Odin is given the **noble** responsibility of acting as the event’s host. As their enemies _(and allies, what's the difference, really, when you think about it)_ not doubt reason, since Asgard _suggested_ the grand idea of a ‘peace treaty between worlds’, any subsequent fallouts or disasters should logically fall on the Aesir's head. After all, most rulers are quite willing to vie for peace while dabbling in matters of other realms, when such negotiations affected them none at all.

One by one, the delegates from each world travel to the Eternal Realm through the Bifrost, some accepting accommodation with the golden walls of the palace with fake graciousness _(inviting the enemy within our walls... is that really wise?)_ , others outright refusing the Aesir's hospitality (reluctant as it is) and making their camps in the lush hunting grounds surrounding the palace.

Tensions are high, distrust is rife in the air, the Aesir are at the peak of alertness, anxious for the slightest signs of disruption... Loki could not have picked a worse time to be strange.

...

Odin watches the gathered ambassadors with his all-seeing eye, seeming quite pleased with the fruits of his efforts. Thor and his friends are mingling among the assembled guests, giving a tour of the grand palace, pointing out Asgard’s priceless artefacts and showcasing their mighty army. The Thunderer meets his father’s gaze, and beams at the quiet pride in his visage.

Heeding his father’s beckons, Thor strides over to the throne. Clasping his son’s shoulder, Odin murmurs softly, “I am glad to see that you are making efforts to build ties with the members of other realms, my child. It will do well for Asgard’s alliances.”

“Ties that do not involve slovenly trysts and drunken brawls? True, you are doing _splendidly_ , brother.”

Thor starts, for he had not noticed Loki’s presence till his voice rang out. “Hiding in the shadows again, my little brother?” he jokes irritably, and would say more, but Odin is already speaking.

“Quiet, Loki. You would do better to emulate Thor by mingling with the visitors. Shutting yourself in the library is considered impolite; it ill befits your duties as a prince.”

Thor is tempted to point out that unleashing his brother on the guests is hardly a wise move to promote goodwill or friendship; war, maybe. Particularly if Loki were to socialize unwillingly. However the rigid set of his brother’s spine and his expressionless face indicates that the ribbing might not be taken well.

Loki stiffens. His voice is blandly dutiful, and carefully emotionless. “I will take your words under consideration, my king.”

Thor frowns, suspecting his brother might be upset. If so, then he is not the only one. Odin’s slightly-narrowed eye indicates that a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed. Thankfully, he is distracted by a commotion at the doors.

 

Inter-worldly diplomacy requires each monarch to be notified of significant gatherings and discussions involving more than one realm; in order not to be misconstrued as a war initiative. Some realms simply choose to ignore the call. Midgard, for one, is too underdeveloped to actually differentiate the summons from other cosmic activity, Muspelheim is too paranoid _(not always without reason)_ , and the Frost Giants are a barbaric race who care naught for worlds outside their icy mausoleum.

Except, it seems that the Frost Giants are no longer indifferent.

Striding tall and imposing, towering over ambassadors, kings and queens alike, is an unexpected delegation: Laufey, king of the Frost Giants with his six-man (giant?) entourage.

Thor cannot deny that they make an impressive formation. Their large, bulky stature, cold, red eyes and intimidating cloak of chilly breeze send shivers down Thor’s spine. Laufey’s height by no means exceeds that of his guards, but his regal and deadly aura leaves no doubt to his identity. The creature keeps his blue chin raised and regal, and his warriors keep their weapons close.

With no outward sign of surprise, the All-Father stands and formally invites his mortal enemy into his home. “Welcome, Laufey-king of Jὂtunheim, to Asgard.”

“A warm welcome indeed” grumbles a younger giant right behind the king, fanning his sweating (melting?) body with important looking documents. Documents which, upon closer inspection, look suspiciously like the official invitations sent to Jὂtunheim, signed by the All-Father himself.

The lack of respect is not commented on. Neither is the fact that the All-Father has not stepped down from his raised dais to greet his fellow king.

This congregation has suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.

…

The unexpected visit of Laufey-king has caused much uproar in Asgard, and the matter of sleeping arrangements is cause for greatest despair. And the peace treaties are yet to begin. “They are staying in the palace?” Thor cries out, aghast. Behind him, Lady Sif and the Warriors Three make similar noises of disgust. “We cannot allow that; they will slit our throats as we sleep! Why can they not take up residence in the grounds outside?”

Frigga purses her lips; she is clearly unhappy with the answer she gives. “Those dwellings are not built of sturdy materials like our golden castle. The sun outside is nigh unbearable to their kind.”

“They are _beasts_! Why should _we_ care for their comfort?”

“Thor!” Frigga reprimands, horrified. Thankfully she cannot pursue the matter; they have arrived at the centre of strife, just in time to hear Laufey-king’s words:

**_“Your courtesy is sadly lacking, Odin-king.”_ **

The Jὂtun ruler bows his large head so he and his fellow king are face to face, blood-red spheres appraising the single all-seeing eye. For the Jὂtuns, Odin is never ‘All-Father’. They do not acknowledge Odin’s power over their realm, even though Odin has proved his superiority a hundredfold, by decimating their realm and confiscating their beloved Casket.

“You invite us, yet you make no arrangements to welcome or even accommodate us. I wonder, truly... do you care to open the bridges between realms, or are your invitations naught but formality?”

The voice is not accusing, inflectionless almost, save for the unfamiliar guttural accent; but Thor would prefer angry incriminating words to the Jὂtun king’s unflappable solemnity. Laufey’s voice is solid as rock and deep as the sheer chasms of his icy homeland. The tone conveys a steadfast resolve; no amount of honeyed words can shake his restrained outrage at the so-called affront.

That does not, however, make his impertinence acceptable.

Thor’s hand wanders immediately to his hammer, the gesture and its intent open for all to see. Two of the Jὂtun guards snarl and turn to the hammer-wielder in response, only to hit their heads on the ceiling.

Laufey resumes talking, unperturbed the rising hackles and pointed posturing. His eyes see only Odin, his gaze never wavers. “You invite us, yet you show blatant disrespect by preparing rooms my warriors can barely _stand_ in, much less inhabit for however long the negotiations take.” The giant pauses, then deliberately slow, he enquires, “Is this a subtle indication to cut my stay short, oh _noble_ host?”

Jὂtuns are beasts, yes; but Laufey is a clever, _clever_ beast. A true monster not just in brute force but also in cunning.

Loki chuckles. Typical indeed, that the trickster would find the monster-king’s manipulation so impressive. Thor glares at his brother half-heartedly, but the second prince is unabashed.

Odin makes to protest the beast’s claims, but the Jὂtun cuts him off brusquely, “And you have not even thought to address the problem of _heat_.”

The sly minister Forseti snorts derisively, “These are the lowest tier of rooms, receiving the only meagre rays of sunlight. If you wish for cooler lodgings, then by all means, feel free to occupy the dungeons.”

“Quiet!” Odin barks, quelling the errant tongue with a scowl. Addressing his compeer once more, Odin remarks lightly, “If you had graced us with your presence more often, I’m sure we would be familiar with the arrangements for your stay. As such, I will do my utmost to provide you with residential comforts.”

Laufey nods, appeased; and briefly holds a quiet discussion with the youthful Jὂtun beside him – his heir, Prince Helblindi. Decision reached, the Jὂtun king turns towards Odin again. “We will accept the hospitality of your dungeons. At least those will be constructed with Jὂtnar in mind.”

Laufey halts, and lets the implications set in. Forseti gulps; his jibe was not meant for seriousness. With suspicious politeness, the king asks, “We have only one request – ice to stave the unpleasant boiling. The torrid weather of your lands interferes with our abilities; we cannot create the ice from our bodies or the ground, as we would do on Jὂtunheim.”

“Very well. It shall be arranged.” Odin seems relieved to finally be at a consensus. He strides out of the chambers first, forcing Thor and his band to follow. When they are far enough, Frigga offers a tentative smile, “At least the issue was resolved peaceably.”

It turns out, all the ice in Gladsheim is insufficient to keep the Jὂtuns from ‘boiling’. The creatures use their natural affinity to mould the ice provided, coating their dungeon accommodations with a thick layer of frost, a cocoon to defend themselves and keep the heat out. Every store, cellar and basement is emptied, sawdust-insulated chilling reserves depleted to provide ‘residential comfort’ for the Jὂtuns. Yet, they declare it insufficient, and have the audacity to demand more, exaggeratedly lamenting at the chafing of their skin.

The biggest insult, however, is Prince Helblindi’s _gracious_ offer to chill the lukewarm mead at the dinner feast.

 

...

Thor is steadfast in his belief that, regardless of the importance of peace, the Jὂtnar are unwelcome in Asgard, and he would be willing, _eager_ even, to bash the Frost Giants’ heads in ( _the incident with the low ceiling is hardly satisfactory_ ) to prove his point, if he would not be swiftly banished by a furious Odin for such actions.

Predictably, his brother’s opinions are very different.

Loki, on the other hand, is fascinated by the Jὂtunheim entourage, or specifically, its female captain of guard. At least, that is the simple introduction offered, though her poise and collected stance seem to imply either rigorous training or inbred nobility. Effectively, the warrior-woman (the only woman in Laufey’s entourage) is strange even among the mysterious delegation.

She is striking, Thor supposes. Her blue skin glistens and gleams in Asgard’s light, her eyes more the colour of rubies than blood, and the markings on her skin twirl in exotic patterns that tell a story of their own, if one knew how to read them.

Also, she is short.

Not by Aesir standards, admittedly; but she cannot be described as a ‘ _giant’_ in any sense except her race. Honestly, only half of the giants conform to Thor’s mental picture of the Jὂtuns - more than eight feet tall and looming morbidly over everyone and everything (they have much difficulty with doorways). Even so, the woman is one of the shortest, second only to the runt prince (the heir, what a mockery) Helblindi. The she-captain is almost an ice-maiden of lore, save for the absence of delicate feminine charm, and the suggestiveness of her hands on the paired swords strapped to her back.

Loki makes extra efforts to converse with her, sometimes staring openly; but not in a manner that would earn him a few hard knocks on the head were Sif present. No, Loki gaze is one of silent awe, full of enchantment at the figure who Thor can only describe as bizarrely fascinating. But Loki’s utter captivation implies that his definition of beauty is as peculiar as his other tastes.

“Where were you skulking all morning, brother-mine? I scoured the entire palace for you; we agreed to train together today, did we not?”

Thor’s voice is booming and ear-catching; too many people glance their way, and Loki cannot slip away without causing comment. He settles for huffing irritably, tiring of his brother’s bull-headed persistence. Reluctantly, he bites out, “If you _must_ know, I was giving our Jὂtnar guests a tour of the castle, predominantly the library.”

Thor’s cheery mood drops immediately, and he gasps in shock and not a little disbelief. Does Loki have a death-wish?

Sensing his brother’s arguments, Loki sighs in annoyance. “Oh Thor, stop being so churlish. It is the first time in millennia that the Frost Giants have set foot in Asgard, and relations are hardly at their most amicable. A small show of solidarity and support will reassure them that they are right to cease their isolation and to vie for peace with the other realms.”

Leaning forward, Loki reveals casually, “Additionally, both Prince Helblindi and Captain Angrboda are proficient in magic; and I would be a hypocrite to deny them, when the same pursuit of knowledge fuels my every aspiration. In return, the prince has very graciously offered a few magic textbooks from his realm... quite a satisfactory outcome, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ah, it is about the warrior-woman again. Thor rolls his eyes; Loki is beyond unreasonable sometimes. He would rather _not know_ what Loki was scheming.

“Only you would willingly barter with the enemy for worthless knowledge, brother. What use could you possibly have, of rudimentary magic from a barbaric realm?”

The second prince frowns. “You are being insolent and prejudiced. Don’t interrupt me, Thor; you _know_ your arrogance has no bounds.” A little more patiently, he explains, “The Jὂtnar’s brand of magic is instinctual rather than spell-based; they do things I have never _heard_ of before, much less seen. Prince Helblindi is quite the prodigy; he can distil concentrated venom from colourless, odourless water, using only the highly sensitive freezing properties of his skin. Angrboda-“

Loki breaks off immediately; sensing that he has spoken too much. However, his restraint is one word too late.

Volstagg laughs heartily at Loki’s ‘infatuation’, while Thor looks like he has been hit in the face with Mjὂlnir. Loki only offers a suffering sigh, leaving them to their own (disturbing) conclusions.

Fandral's snide comments and Sif's thinly veiled outrage (understandable, since Loki, always openly derisive of Sif's femininity, prefers one _more_ battle-oriented than her) simply go over Loki's head. Thor's friends think it merely Loki's supercilious attitude, but Thor knows better... and he wishes he didn't.

For all his lack of finesse, Thor understands the unspoken language of Loki, fluency borne from years of sitting beside his baby brother, first listening to his incoherent child-babble, and when older, his magic-related gibberish. Thor knows the subtle tightness of Loki's jaw that manifests when he tries to ignore the jeers of his peers, a sign that despite his facade, Loki is bothered by the insults thrown at him. Such facial tics are absent now, and Thor marvels at the fact that Loki is so fixated on the jὂtun that he does not even care of the opinion of his compatriots.

 

…

After the eventful first day, Loki takes to the concept of a peace summit with more eagerness than Thor believes possible, mingling among the assembled dignitaries and amassing a wealth of information (all irrelevant from a strategic perspective, of course; the _allies_ have little faith in Aesir vows of comradeship in arms, though they cite the treaties when it suits their purpose). That in itself is highly unusual, since the younger prince is normally vocal in his dislike for large gatherings and boisterous crowds.

Yet that is not all that Loki does. Thor spies his sibling engaged in deep conversation with Lord Dệnathir of Álfheim, offering magical wards to protect his lands from troll encroachments.  Loki sprouts out a multitude of magical terminology, but his point is a sensible one. “An inward-directly spell would be most suitable to your situation, I believe. It would prevent unwelcome entry _into_ your borders, keeping interlopers out but not by causing them any harm; thus eliminating your current concerns of treaty dispute.”

“A pragmatic option to prevent conflict at the borders”, the elf agrees approvingly. “How soon can you travel to Álfheim, my prince? Our mages cannot perform such complicated sorcery without your guidance.”

Thor is familiar with Loki’s smug satisfaction; but the smile on his face now is innocently charming. It is an expression rarely seen on the younger prince’s face, Thor muses. Thor is accustomed to the scathing glances and sly words Loki throws his brother’s way – when he is not actively trying to avoid Thor, that is. The scene leaves a bitter taste in Thor’s mouth.

When Thor makes the mistake of sarcastically enquiring the reason for Loki’s unprecedented sociability, the dark prince ( _in hair, heart, and magic; or so the soldiers guffaw_ ) snarls at his elder sibling, “I am doing what you are supposed to do, you lumbering oaf! I am using my skills to forge diplomatic ties, just like you are using your unwieldy hammer to destroy them.”

“I have not-“

“Do not lie to me! I know the Álfan lord is offended by your frequent adulations of his sisters’ beauty; it falls on me to cover for you! And do you have any idea how offended Laufey-king was, when you insisted the Jotnar join your hunt in the sweltering midday heat?"

Thor is incensed; this is one accusation too many. Furious, he attacks, "Again and again; it all goes back to the Frost Giants!"

"It is about diplomacy! If you cannot appreciate the value of trustworthy relations between the realms, then you are unworthy of being one of royalty, much less a future king.”

Striding out of the chambers with swift, lean steps, Loki calls out behind his back, his voice oddly...empty. “I expect no contribution from you, my hot-headed brother _,_ but at least do not mock the efforts of those who try.”

 

In an effort to make amends, Thor swallows his pride and brings Loki's achievements to the Allfather's notice. “It seems Loki has made several friends in this gathering, father. And offered his assistance to a fair plenty, I am led to believe. The bonds made today will go a long way in the future, would they not?”

A few seats away, Loki gives no visible reaction, but the tenseness of his demeanour indicates he is listening closely.

Thor watches Odin, yet the praise he looks for does not come. To his dismay, Odin scoffs, regally declaring, “It is unseemly for a prince of Asgard to intervene in mundane matters of other realms, unless his judgement is called upon. An Aesir prince is hardly a peasant at the beck and call of others.”

 Avoiding Loki's hurt and betrayed expression, Thor allows his brother to believe he acted out of jealousy rather than affection.

…

The congregation is a lavish affair, even by the Aesir's standards; and food and wine are aplenty.

However, Thor’s brother does not seem to think so, scouring the food-laden tables in search of the most exotic foods he can find. Loki pickily selects a few choice delicacies, and strides purposefully to the one area in the hall that all avoid – the Frost Giant’s corner.

Standing in front of the Jὂtun prince, Loki ceremoniously presents the heaped plate to the Jὂtun envoy. Stepping back, he briefly meets eyes with the woman -Angrboda- and waits for their reaction, clasping his hands patiently behind his back.

Thor does not see the significance of his actions, since the food is readily available from the huge banquet tables lining the wall. However, the Jὂtuns see it differently, holding swift communication with uneasy glances while openly sizing up the green-clad prince.

Thor immediately steps beside his trouble-making sibling, silently sending a message that Loki is not alone, and that more will rise to his defence should an incident take place.

Ruby-red eyes survey him impassively, and Thor curses Loki's curiosity in his head. _(For it could be nothing more than curiosity, could it? Surely his brother is not mad enough to **fancy** the strange-skinned female?)_ His brother has never hesitated to poke his nose into things that interest him, no matter how forbidden. Thor can only hope these damn meetings conclude without serious incident, though he doubts it; Loki’s schemes always go out of control in a most flashy manner.

Unsettled by the ominous looks, the golden prince interposes himself between the monsters and his brother, mustering all his manners to get the dire situation under control. "Forgive my brother, dear guests _(for he cannot say friends, cannot lie to the eyes of blood and shroud of cold)_. He did not mean to offend you in any manner. He merely desired to offer his company and sate his curiosity of other realms.”

Oh, the irony. How many times had Loki make excuses for him, diverted father's wrath at Thor’s near-perpetual foolishness; now Thor tries to amend Loki’s apparent transgressions, despite not having the slightest idea of the what is happening.

"Nay, we are not offended; merely surprised... We did not anticipate that you would be familiar with our cuisine and customs.” Angrboda’s tone is cautious but courteous, wary but not unwelcoming. At least, she does not seem likely to draw out her weapons and gut the princes.

Bitterly, the tallest warrior spits before she can continue, "We are well aware of how the Asgardians perceive our race."

Thor is tempted to inform the beast that they are _Aesir_ , not _Asgardians_ , but he is more interested in dragging his baby brother out of harm’s way before he can overstep his boundaries again.

Thor begins to turn away, one arm around his brother’s shoulder to subtly encourage him in the right direction, away from strange red-eyed creatures and their incomprehensible ‘customs’. But Thor has never been good at controlling his strength, and his sharp tug nearly overbalances his light-weight brother.

Thor’s anger is storming, but Loki’s face is full of smug satisfaction, seemingly unfazed by the thinly-veiled insult. Politely, he answers Angrboda while discreetly shrugging off his brother. "Indeed; however, I took it upon myself to research Jὂtunhiem manners in order to improve friendly relations. I am glad to see it paid off.”

Prince Helblindi nods solemnly in acknowledgement, effectively ending any possible dissent from his warriors. "Since the token for entry has been paid" gesturing towards the food, "we accept your request to join our meal. It is a pleasure, Odinsons."

“But my prince, your father would never allow-“, a jὂtun starts, to which Helblindi smiles sweetly but dangerously, “Yes, but father is resting in the... _chambers_ , and he left _me_ in charge. Do you wish to contest his decision, friend Thyrm?”

Wanting no part of the jὂtuns’ squabbles, Thor shakes his head, “Nay, thank you for your offer, but we will take our leave here. Come, brother.” He tries to grip Loki again, but his brother is wise enough to remain out of Thor’s reach.

Ignoring both, Loki, who needs no more invitation, promptly makes himself comfortable on the nearest seat, rendering Thor's efforts futile. He offers the prince and the lady a small smile before drudging out the blasé enquiries of their land and the comfort of their lodgings.

The golden prince shuffles awkwardly on his feet, unsure whether to stay or leave. In the end, he decides to remain as mute support for his maddening brother, _in case_ the jὂtuns get blood-thirsty or Loki shows signs of his usual mischief. Somehow, Thor finds himself accepted as part of the company, though no ‘token of entry’ _(strange j_ _ὂ_ _tuns)_ has been paid on his behalf.

Loki's silver tongue and extensive research make dinner quite less awkward than Thor predicts. Stilted yes, with some jὂtuns (particularly the tall one) maintaining icy silence (in more ways than one), but at least there is polite, if terse conversation, and no one dies.

Throughout the meal, Odin reigns disapproving, and Frigga watches with profound, melancholy acceptance. His mother predicts things to come, and she understands Loki better than anyone else in the realm; perhaps she has a slight inkling of his enigmatic brother's thoughts. Thor certainly hopes so; he has ceased to comprehend Loki’s behaviour a long while ago.

When the feasting is over and the royal family is left to their own devices, Odin chides Loki for his recklessness; to which Loki responds with feigned innocence and acerbic words. Thor supports Father’s words, and pitches in at the appropriate moments. But he cannot muster enough enthusiasm, for Odin’s words are hollow, resigned even, as if the All-father understands Loki's actions better than the dark-haired prince himself (and maybe he does, doesn't the All-father know everything in the nine realms?).

The whole matter unsettles Thor on multiple levels, but it takes him a while to pinpoint his foreshadowings. For despite being the god of mischief, recklessness is Thor's domain, and throughout this bizarre ordeal Loki has been nothing if not prepared. It is only in times like these that Thor truly wonders what his brother is capable of when he puts his heart to it.

 

...

Only the kings (and sometimes queens) participate actively in the negotiations; the visiting princes and princesses have naught to do except forge friendships which might be of value in the future. Youngsters from different lands gather in the courtyard to shed light on their respective realms (often subtly boasting) and to glean knowledge of worlds they have never seen. Most are young, noble of birth and thought, brave and hardy; but they are unfamiliar with the cruelties of war, relying on lore and legend for their knowledge of the Yggradsil.

The elders do not frequently join in, for they have seen other lands, most likely in the midst of battle; and have either looted and ravaged, or been destroyed in turn. In any case, the monarchs and their ancient advisers shy away from the assortment of youth booming their tales for all to hear. For the old and wise, other realms hold too many unpleasant memories and emotional scars to bear traversing again, if only in word.

 

A game of flyte is called, smooth words and lilting rhymes float in the air. Loki's charm and eloquence make him an instant success, his stories keeping the delegations entertained (though often at Thor’s expense). Thor has not seen Loki like this in a long while; with a start, he realises Loki is trying to make an impact, to impress; something he had attempted desperately but eventually tired of with their father. And while it is not obvious, Thor immediately figures out for whose benefit the demonstration is intended.

Thor eyes the jὂtun maiden speculatively, but her outlandish cerulean skin makes body language impossible to read. Yet he insistently but surreptitiously observes the seemingly emotionless blue figure for any signs of his brother’s success.

The flyte ruffles a few feathers, as to be expected; and a few cannot take the insults lightly. Loki is not the perpetrator of any insult, an unbelievable occurrence for which Thor cannot be more thankful. Thor might have caused some dissatisfaction himself, belittling prince Dṙanḡr of Nelfheim regarding his short stature and his brutish axe (all in good fun, of course; what fault is his that the dwarf does not understand humour?).

When a few brash ones suggest a spar, Thor, in a rare display of intelligence, is apprehensive. Spars have a tendency to get unpredictable and ugly; more so when the participants were mortal enemies through centuries of racial belief (and have ruffled feathers which are no fault of him or his brother).

Yet, to his surprise, Loki is eager to showcase his skills, and Thor does not wish to appear a coward by protesting.

Thor is paired with a stout Vanir, whose surprising flexibility makes the match entertaining enough. But the opponent cannot match the power of the magical hammer’s thunder, and eventually concedes with a sporting slap on the back.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, considering Loki's infatuation knows no bounds, particularly not those of ballot casts) the dark haired prince is paired with the lady of his dreams, and he smirks lightly as he takes his stance.

Unlike with his brother or his friends ( _Thor's, not Loki's_ ; or so he always says), Loki does not bother with a sword, despite the disapproval his magic is always met with. The jὂtun warrior does not visibly react to the green barrier suddenly rushing to encase her, but her swift response of a snow avalanche shows her acceptance to the challenge.

Creating illusions to distract his opponent from his traps, pulling daggers from the thin air; Loki showcases his best tricks, some of which Thor has never seen before. Loki parries with swords and staffs, and aims daggers for longer-range attacks. He conjures doubles, which split into further Lokis, creating a veritable army to circle the warrior and her ice-wolves.

The jὂtun acknowledges his tricks with a feral smirk, even as she counters them with magic of her own. Loki seems to take it as approval, baring his teeth to reflect her expression. In that moment, Thor thinks Loki and his intended ( _for she most definitely is such in Loki's eyes, though other may declare such as downright madness_ ) are indeed similar.

The fight lasts so long that even the spectators are weary, but neither side is willing to back down. Their fight draws the attention of some of the elders, who abandon their smooth-tongued squabbles to observe the clash of master mages. It is a surprise to see Loki, who would not participate in a fight he could not win, forging ahead with disregard for his own life. Clearly, more than Loki's pride is at stake here. Thor only hopes it is not Loki's heart on the line.

Thor is only just realising that Loki’s feelings for the Jὂtun woman are more than idle curiosity of a genius ...though he secretly had doubts, ever since that dinner. To see Loki so cheerful with the woman and the prince, talking excitedly about seiḋr and politics and other things Thor has no interest in... It makes Thor wonder if Loki’s professed preference for solitude arises merely as a buffer from loneliness.

Loki slithers to her left, an upward slash of his sword towards her slightly weaker side. Angrboda hastily constructs an ice-shield, but the blow never lands. Loki materializes on her unguarded side, a trusty dagger aiming for her throat. She reacts instinctively, slamming her hand upward to counteract the weapon’s swing, inadvertently grappling instead his empty wrist. Meanwhile, Loki brings the dagger in his _other_ hand over the slackly-held shield, and positions it neatly over her heart.

Victorious, he demands with quiet satisfaction, “yield”.

She blinks, as if not comprehending her loss, then nods, dissolving her shield. “A good fight, Prince Loki.”

The approval he so desperately fought for is right there, given freely, but Loki is too busy gaping at their entwined hands to notice. The captured limb, not fully encased in its gauntlet, is no longer pale and smooth. Rather, the peachy skin gives way to a rich blue that is only a shade lighter than the colour of Angrboda’s hand grasping his own.

“What have you done to him?” Thor roars furiously, but he can see it was an accident. The woman’s red eyes are wide in confusion as she examines the frostbite that looks nothing like how frostbite should look. His expression mirroring her own, Thor realises this is the first time the jὂtun woman has completely let her guard down during the entire diplomatic gathering.

Collecting herself, Angrboda retorts shakily, “I did nothing! I don’t understand- why is-“ She stops, watching dumbly as blue seeps into the narrow, pointed face, ridges and sharp lines emerging from the skin to form the jὂtun runic house-lines. Panicked red eyes meet hers in silent plea.

“Thor!” Sif pants, coming to a stop next to him; Thor hadn’t noticed her disappearance. “I found the All-Father in a meeting, called for him. I told him that the jὂtun witch has done something to Loki. He should be arriving anytime-“

**_"What is the meaning of this?"_ **

Coincidentally, the worst possible person is the first to arrive.

If Laufey's voice was ice before, it is hail now; piercing through deceit and biting and deadly as the sharpest of spears. Loki stares helplessly at the Jὂtun king, unable to answer, unable to do more than stare numbly at his resplendent skin.

Loki tries to back away, but the giant’s large strides give him the advantage, bringing him right beside Loki. Smoothly, the king raises the no-longer-Aesir face to inspect the patterns on the skin. “Impossible...” Laufey whispers, in shock and awe and some emotions Thor would rather not identify.

“These are royal lines; lines of the house of Nὰl...” Angrboda exclaims in disbelief, as Prince Helblindi slides up beside her to inspect Loki’s face. The overwhelming closeness of the Jὂtuns discomfits Loki, and he tries to squirm away.

Sensing his cue, Thor rushes up to his brother, prepared to fight the Jὂtun king to death if need be. A familiar gasp stops him in his tracks.

Odin storms through the bewildered spectators, while Frigga stands pale and ashen at the sight of her strangely-hued son. Her face is writ with worry and tension, but Thor can see not a speck of surprise.

The blue is already receding from Loki’s skin, replaced by an unhealthy waxy hue made worse by the clear panic visible. Berating himself for the distraction, Thor rushes forward, only to stop his hand an inch from Loki’s blue skin. Hesitating, he asks, “Are you injured, brother? What have they _done_ to you?”

 **_“He is not your brother. He is_ ** **my _son!”_**

The assembled gasp, the words now out in the air can never be withdrawn. “What- no, but I.. I’n not- I mean-” Loki backs away, but Helblindi’s evidently reassuring hand on his shoulder acts as a barrier to his escape.

Odin interjects hurriedly before the giant can spew more impossibilities from his foul tongue. “Perhaps this discussion is better held in private.”

Distrustful red eyes glare at the All-Father in pure hatred, but the jὂtun king acquiesces. “Very well. You have a great deal to explain, Odin child-thief.”

Everyone directly involved in the incident -Loki, Angrboda and inexplicably Helblindi- are shepherded into a small conference room by the two irate kings, while the crowds are left to stew in suspense. Thor makes to follow, but his Mother’s hand on his arm halts him.

“Come with me, my son” Frigga murmurs, distraught, “for much has been kept secret from both of you, and it is time to pay the price of our silence.”

“But Loki- the monsters- we have to make sure he is fine, ensure he is safe” Thor protests. “The jὂtun- Laufey, he said... _tell me it isn’t true, Mother **.**_ ” he pleads, not caring that they are the centre of attention, and others are as eager for the response as he is in dread of it.

“ _Come_ , Thor” she pulls him along, not a little desperately, mindful of the exposed scenario and the ears upon them. Thor follows numbly. Her silence is answer enough.

 ...

Ironically, it takes the Casket of Ancient Winters to convince both Thor and Laufey.

The Jὂtun king demands that his long-lost son be exposed to the Casket’s touch, as proof that he is well and fine, and that Odin ‘ _child-thief’_ has caused no more physical harm. Thor flinches at the sight of Frost Giants in Asgard’s vaults, but his need for truth takes precedence. Nevertheless, he keeps a tight grip on Mjὂlnir, and a careful watch on the covetous looks the jὂtuns bestow upon the Casket.

Frigga does not come.

Thor wishes to stand beside his brother and offer encouraging words, to reassure that it is merely a misunderstanding or a jὂtun ploy, and that Loki couldn’t possibly be a monster. Yet Loki is far opposite him, leaning towards Prince Helblindi as he explains the origins and significance of the Casket. Thor decides that, in the event the Jὂtuns attack, Helblindi shall be his first target.

The kings finish their conversations, and Laufey beckons to Loki. The prince _(of Asgard or J_ _ὂ_ _tunheim, as the Casket would show)_ steps determinedly in front of the pedestal, and for a second Thor almost shouts out, as Loki had shouted out to him so desperately when they were children.

Gingerly, Loki lifts the Casket, and turns.

Thor gasps, and his staunch denial crumbles down in face of his erstwhile brother’s blue skin and skin markings. His red eyes rove around, settling on Angrboda, offering a small nod in recognition of her wide grin and her efforts to stop Helblindi from launching himself at his now-proven brother.

Laufey visibly sags with relief, and a great weariness takes Odin’s frame. “You have your proof; we are done here.” He indicates to Loki to return the Casket to its rightful place, but Loki waits for his father _(father!)_ to approve it. Laufey nods; Loki returns the artefact, albeit with unreassuring reluctance.

The Jὂtuns leave the vaults, leaving behind a broken family.

...

Thor sees Loki about the castle, sometimes in his normal appearance, sometimes in his newly-found _(original)_ skin. Words must be had, yet Thor does not know what to say. To show remorse? Pity? To reassure Loki that he is not a monster, and that he is Thor’s brother despite everything?

However, Thor does not get a chance to speak, for Loki is never without jὂtun guards accompanying him. Laufey is clearly unwilling to have his missing child out of his sight. Thor cannot even visit Loki in his rooms, for he has relocated to the dungeons along with his -shudder- brethren.

All Thor can do is mope with his friends, who are decidedly untalented at consoling him.

“A lot of things make sense now, don’t they?” Fandral muses, swilling the wine in his glass. Seeing Thor’s stormy gazes, he hastens uncomfortably, “Come now, even you have to admit there was always something _different_ about him.”

Thor refuses the food which the servants offer, tempting though it is to drown his insecurities in mead.

“He’s rather small for a Frost Giant, isn’t he?” Volstagg speculates through a leg of lamb. It is partly his appetite that causes them to meet so regularly at the feast hall. “Do you think being in Asgard stunted his growth?”

“Maybe he was always so irritable because he was ‘boiling’... or perhaps Jὂtuns know nothing of pleasant company“, Sif retorts. She has always been unkind to Loki, but surely the occasion warrants sympathy?

“Asgard’s weather was not to his liking. He said so often.” Hogun’s brusque summation was a little sobering, for the signs were all there; but how could they have imagined such a thing?”

Fandral seems to take Loki’s position as the thinker of the group. “Discomfiting weather or not, Asgard can hardly be blamed for his height. The prince -the _other_ prince, Helblindi- not Loki – _Norns, this is difficult!-_ Helblindi is equally small.... Loki’s height could be a family trait.”

“Or perhaps it was the diet.” Volstagg has ever been one to worship food. “Perhaps he did not prefer our succulent feasts over his natural diet. They partook of our meals while here, but what do you think Jὂtuns actually eat, back on their barren realm? Raw meat, or perhaps each other?

Loki’s ill-timed entrance amidst the warriors’ hearty guffaws goes unnoticed, till he cuts through their merriment with words of pure venom. “Sorry to disappoint you, _my good friend_ , but we Jὂtnar do not eat raw meat. Fish is our staple diet, though if you offer your offensive tongue, I am sure our ice-wryms will consume it with relish.”

“Loki!” Thor cries out, and belatedly adds, albeit rather uselessly, “We meant no insult. Please do not let these words turn our meeting sour. There was no need to make such threats against Volstagg.”

Loki’s green eyes flash red, and he snickers cruelly. “The Silvertongue’s words are at fault, naturally. The threats turn the mood sour, not the non-insults.”

Sif stands tall and haughty, “Why are you here, Jὂtun?”

“Sif, this is Loki!” Glaring at the shield-maiden, Thor beseeches Loki to understand. “It matters not whose blood flows through you.” Ignoring Sif’s anger, he pushes on, “You are still Loki, despite what you are.”

Not acknowledging Thor’s words, Loki answers Sif’s question. “I intended to break bread with you... but I see you have already eaten.” Slowly, deliberately, he adds, “Perhaps it was for best. The talk of raw meat has ruined my appetite.” Smoothly, the prince stalks out, probably to seek his true kin.

Thinking back, it is the last time Thor sees Loki in his Aesir skin.

...

Too many delegates bear witness to the reveal of Loki’s identity, and it is too widely discussed to even _consider_ concealing. Realms with grudges against the Allfather delight at ammunition to attack the infallible Odin; for who is the _wise_ Odin to talk of peace, when he stole not only his enemy’s most powerful weapon but also his infant heir?

All distrust Odin, for none believe for a moment that it was an act of compassion rather than a calculated blow to a long-time enemy. Some dare claim the All-Father soft-hearted and a fool, for surely the sensible course of action is to kill the child before he grows into a threat, not accept such a creature into Odin’s own home... though none would dare say such to either Laufey’s or Odin’s face.

Thor wants desperately to say that they are wrong, that none of those matter, and Loki is Loki and shall always be Loki... and then he remembers the familiar face mutilated by blue skin and red eyes, and he cannot bear to think any further. Still, he loves his brother, but he has not got a chance to say so... since the debacle of before.

Thor knows that Loki and Odin have had words; and that Laufey curses and threatens and storms, and would have declared war had not his son (his _other_ son Helblindi, not Loki- Oh Norns, how did things get so complicated?) soothed his ire and subtly pointed the futility of war.

Still, the jὂtuns halt all negotiations and prepare to leave immediately. To Thor’s dismay, they intend to take Loki with them.

“He cannot go; he is my brother! He was raised among us and so is one of us, regardless of his parentage! You cannot allow him to leave, _please_ father, _do_ something!”

“Loki chose this himself” Odin explains. Thor thinks that it shouldn’t matter at all.

A formal parting has been arranged at the Bifrost site, for Laufey refuses to tarry with feasts and other Aesir impracticalities. It is meant to be a solemn occasion, but the ceremonial robes are prickly and uncomfortable, as is the mood of the gathered.

Loki wears his blue skin proudly, as if he had always been that way. He displays more skin than he has ever shown before, bare-chested as per jὂtun custom. Thor can't help but look back at all the times Loki bundled himself up in his armour and fur, not leaving an inch of skin exposed. Thor always assumed Loki was cold (though he always denied it, and now his heritage proves otherwise); Thor wonders if perhaps the Asgardian sun was somehow unpleasant on his (fake) skin.

"Do you leave because of her?" Thor blurts out, wishing desperately to protest against the rashness of the decision (oh the _irony_ , since when has _Thor_ been against rash behaviour?). Loki has known the woman for merely a week; how can that be worth giving up his family (not blood, but still _family_ , in heart and everything that truly matters) of a thousand years?

Loki shakes his head, voice bland and impassive. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 _But you never did try to explain,_ Thor thinks angrily; then chides himself. He does not wish to let his temper and ugly feelings ruin what may well be the last time he sees his brother.

His emotions are clear on his face, prompting Loki to reassure in the irritable manner that was so characteristic of his silver tongue. "Do not fret, Thor; it ill becomes you. You have been blind to too many things to comprehend why I must do what I am doing; for my happiness and for the happiness of all concerned.”

Seeing that Thor is not remotely reassured, Loki continues in a softer voice, “Remember this; no matter where we are, we shall always be brothers."

It is not an answer to his question; Loki is never one to give straight answers. But it is a promise, a solemn oath made with full awareness of the implications; a promise more significant that any treaty at that momentous conference.

Loki hugs Mother, murmuring a gentle goodbye into golden hair he so loved to play with as a child. He takes two steps towards the All-Father, hesitant, almost uncomfortable.

Thor winces. The tension in the air is palpable. Behind Loki, the jὂtuns leaned forward _oh-so-slightly_ , gripping their weapons just a _little_ tighter. Laufey bares his teeth in a soundless growl.

Loki is clearly testing the waters, gauging moods before blurting anything that might be viewed in a negative light. Understandable, since he is breaking off allegiance to a king he called father for his entire lifetime, and by doing so, effectively betraying Odin and his trust. And technically, as a Jὂtun prince, any slight against the Aesir king could lead to a war. Loki, ever prudent, watches surreptitiously for signs of anger or the ever-present disappointment; but Odin is outwardly composed.

 _I only wished to bring about an alliance, a permanent peace... through you._ Thor feels sick inside. Was **_this_** Father’s plan all along? Did he raise Loki beside his son, only so they could someday be parted when politics suited it? If so, was he pleased with the outcome of his grand scheme? Satisfied in his bargain, considering himself victorious, winning an ally in hostile land while losing an unwanted son? Losing Thor a brother?

“Fath-... All-Father, I... I wish to thank you for providing for me and ...nurturing me all these centuries. May the future bring peace upon all of us.”

It is a proper, formal speech; hardly suited for a parting of father and son. ( _But they aren’t,_ Thor thinks bitterly, wishing to say _something_ to avert this bizarre calamity, but only _Norns_ know the magic words).

In an attempt to assuage the stilted nature of the goodbye, Loki takes another step forward, but Odin makes no move, either to initiate the hug or iterate the meaningless farewell.

Abruptly changing his mind, Loki turns back to his real father and his people, assembled and ready for the bifrost. Satisfaction gleams in the blood-red orbiof the assembled Jὂtuns. All except for Loki _(Oh, how it hurt to consider his brother part of **them** )_, for Loki’s back is to Thor. Call Thor a coward, but he is immensely grateful to be ignorant of his brother’s reaction.

The golden observatory shimmers in myriad colours, the portal activates. Loki meets Thor’s pleading eyes, and his own red orbs soften. “Brother” Loki nods, acknowledging him for one last time, before departing to his icy homeland.

...

Loki’s absence is not immediately felt, for he was always a creature of the shadows, avoiding the limelight. _A monster in the dark_ , Thor muses, remembering the childhood tales of frost-giants who eat their own kind and kill for fun. But Loki was no monster, he was Thor’s brother ( ** _is_** his brother, will always be – that much at least Loki had promised); and there is a gaping hole in Thor’s life where the former second prince used to be.

"Why did he have to leave?” the no-longer-shining prince sobs out, with his head on his mother’s lap and her fingers stroking his hair consolingly, warm and firm and so unlike Loki’s cool, slippery grasp.

Frigga is close to tears, and Thor can see she misses her not-son just as much as Thor does. “Oh Thor, my precious... It pains me just as much as it does you, but this was inevitable. He may be raised as ours, but blood always tells.”

  **…**

* * *

**First Loki fanfic! Was a long time in coming; but now that I’ve started, I’m not gonna stop, yeah! Be prepared for more Loki, and maybe some Avengers as well! (As much as RL allows...)**

I suck at fight scenes, yes. But I felt the fic would be incomplete without one. This initially started out as a humor fic, but evolved into something quite serious... It wasn’t supposed to be quite so long either... my fics always have the tendency to get out of hand. The speech pattern ended up long and convoluted as well. The names are mostly made up. I had great fun messing with the symbol palette in MS-Word.

Thor falls in love with Jane after a mere three days. See the irony here? *hehe*

I am really extrapolating by giving vague suggestions that a bad experience with magic played a part in Thor’s derision of his brother. After all, Sif broke so many traditions by choosing the life of a warrior, a _man_ , and Thor whole-heartedly supported her. When his brother did the opposite, though... maybe Thor doesn’t like magic very much? (subconsciously, perhaps). Anyway, just making up explanations in my head...

I am delighted to announce that I had recently started a Jotun community on FFnet. Links on my profile and recommendations welcome!

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Both the title and the quote are taken from the Jungle Book. ‘My Own Home’ is Shanti’s song. Mogli, after listening to her melody, longs for the human village and leaves the jungle for his own kind. Pretty much the same principle here.
> 
> Note: Gladsheim is the name of Asgard’s palace – you know, the golden one that looks like a pipe organ.
> 
> Note 2: I purposefully got the plural for ‘jotun’ wrong (it’s jotnar), because it’s Thor POV and Thor doesn’t care. FYI.


End file.
